“I didn’t know who he was. The name meant nothing. And the DOC had him listed as being in prison. It turned out to be a typo.” Louis let out a breath. “A damn typo.”
Bjork studied him.
Louis stared into his beer. “It was Christmas. I tried to do something decent.”
“Well, Louis, there is decent and then there is dumb.”
“Thanks,” Louis said.
“Did you expect sympathy from me?”
He met her eyes briefly then looked away. “I don’t know what I’m expecting anymore.”
“How come nobody in the department thought of him, thought the barricade situation would – ”
“I have no idea,” Louis interrupted. He stared at a set of carved initials in the tabletop.
“Louis,” Bjork said. “You will get him.”
He looked up at her. “Right.”
She shook her head and glanced at the bar. Her eyes lit up and she waved to someone, who hollered a friendly hello across the room.
Louis stared at her. “You like it here, don’t you?”
“I love it. It’s my home,” she said with a smile. “I mean, I’ve traveled some, lived below the bridge for a year even. But I always come back. I belong here.”
He could almost feel his mind slowing, slowing as it approached this strange bend in the road. Home. That’s what he had thought Loon Lake would be. A safe place that he could settle into. But it was not as it had first seemed. Nothing was as it first seemed. Loon Lake wasn’t a postcard paradise; it was a place of death. Jesse wasn’t a partner he could count on; he was a coward, his judgment clouded by blind loyalty to Gibralter. And Gibralter, what was he? Certainly not the perfect chief.
And Zoe…what he had felt with her. What was that?
“Louis?”
He glanced at Bjork. “What are you thinking?”
“About Loon Lake, the job. My chief.”
“I talked to your chief today. Strange man.”
“He called you?”
“Ya, wanted to make sure you arrived okay.”
“Christ,” Louis said under his breath, looking away.
They were silent, the laughter and music of the tavern floating around them.
“What else did he have to say?” Louis asked finally.
Bjork fiddled with the neck of the Stroh’s bottle.
“What else?” Louis pressed.
“He said he was concerned because you, quote, couldn’t find your ass with two hands, unquote.”
Louis felt the heat creeping into his face but he didn’t look away.
“Sounds like a hard-ass,” Bjork said.
Bjork reached across the table and touched his hand. Louis looked down at her hand. Her nails were short with chipped, rose-colored polish. There was one of those mother’s rings on her finger with three little gemstones. He withdrew his hand and dropped it in his lap.
Bjork sat back, looking at him. Then she quickly raised her bottle and drained it, setting it down loudly.
“Well, I need to call it a night. How about you? You okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Bjork stood up, looking down at him. Her eyes were watery in the neon light and he wanted to believe it was from the booze, no veteran-to-rookie sympathy. Or worse, some woman-to-man thing. Christ, he had started the night thinking about what Bjork might look like handcuffed to a bed and now she was looking at him like he was her kid.
“Lieutenant Byrd will have your evidence ready for you tomorrow morning,” she said. “Swing by and pick it up.”
Louis nodded.
Bjork hesitated then extended a hand. “It was a pleasure, Officer Kincaid.”
Louis took her hand. “Thanks, Bjork,” her said softly. “Thanks for everything.”
No doubt about it. He was drunk.
On the drive home from Dollar Bay he had stopped off at the grocery to pick up a six-pack of Heineken. It had taken only two hours to go through that and then he had moved on to the Christian Brothers.
Now he was sprawled on the sofa, staring into the dying fire in the hearth. Something in his fogged brain was telling him to go outside and get more logs but he was too tired to move.
With a grunt, he turned and reached for the bottle on the floor. He brought it up to his eyes, squinting. Empty. He stood and stumbled to the kitchen, jerking open the cupboard. Empty. No booze, no food, no woman, and soon, probably no job. What a shitty week.
Going back to the sofa, he grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, jerked open the door and headed to the lake. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to just cut a hole in the ice and jump in. Hell, they wouldn’t find him until spring unless, of course, he floated up under some kid’s ice skate like Lovejoy had. That would be just his luck.
He was halfway to the shoreline when it occurred to him that he could be a walking target for Duane Lacey’s rifle. At least he was too drunk to feel the bullet.
